Museo de la Memoria

People wondered down the alleyway that is nestled between the cathedral and tourist center heads gazed above as the black and white photos hung from light post to light post each portrait a victim of the argentine dictatorship. I stumbled upon this place by accident the day before. My good friend Maria and I were out exploring the city. We had heard that there was an underground Jesuit passage that laid under the main plaza of San Martin. Although successfully finding the entranceway we had arrived late and it was closed to our disappointment. On the left sat a building full of archives; I asked the women at the desk front where I might be able to come across some papers about the dictatorship. She began to draw me a little map out on a scrap of paper. Although I had crossed the Plaza of San Martin millions of times I had never stumbled across the museo de la memoria (the museum of the memory). The museum was closed by the time that we arrived but the office was still open. I explained to the women at the front desk about my 15 page paper I had written for school about the dictatorship and how I was looking to add to the paper. She looked at me with surprise; why was a 16 year old girl from the states investigating upon this touchy subject. And with her face full of curiosity followed her question that I could tell was already on her mind. I explained that I thought it was important for my society to know how our government had played a roll to assist the dictatorship and the ramifications of our foreign policy in Latin America. With my response a new sense of hospitality swept over she invited me to come back Thursday when new photographs would be hung. The next day I called two friends from school that had helped me a lot on the subject. Thursday we met on the cathedral steps, and shortly latter our eyes two where gazing up at the black and white photographs hung from light post to light post. The museum was a old detention center. Things for the most part where left the way they were found. Old papers sat in the desk drawer, cell chambers left ruminates of scratched messages. Newspaper articles where hung and poems could be found written on wall corners. In one room sat a TV a video of survivors and their stories replayed over and over again. Old stairs led to lightless basement chambers. And through an upstairs window the city could be seen. I could only imagine what it must have been like for the victims to look out that same window. While everything looked peaceful in the foreground an overwhelming sadness hung over the place. What really got me where the books families, loved ones, and friends had put together. Scrapbooks of victim’s life were full of photographs, notes, school papers, identification cards. Each told a story and at that point it was impossible to not to put a face to the 30,000 victims. Another room held old possessions an old electric scooter, records, a guitar, and clothing dating back to the 1970’s. Something about the dresses really stuck out at me as each was accompanied by a ticket of the person wearing it. Although I had read tons of books, watched documentaries, and had written the paper. A whole different emotion swept over me which reached a lot deeper than any story, book, or documentary.

The following photographs were put together by Gustavo Germano. The people missing in the pictures are victims of the Argentine dictatorship. These photographs speak louder the any words I could attempt to write.

Valentines Day

The other night I traveled to Unquillo with my two sisters. It’s a town outside the capital of Cordoba. Vale went to go visit her boyfriend Charlie and go out for dinner. The Lau and I went to a dinner concert where one of her friends Rawlfy plays in a band. The restaurant was set back in the woods on a dirt road. Upon arrival you had to walk across a little bridge and up the stairs past an old willow tree. The old stone building was set upon a hill; lights illuminated the garden at night. An eccentric cluster of tables formed a restaurant and a large painting of Frida Khalo hung on the wall where the band had set up to play. Things where tight even though there was only about twenty of us. I sat at a table with my sisters friends and we munched on pizza and empanadas. Music varied from Bob Marley, Mana, Jason Maraz, to BB King. The band consisted of three guys two who sang and played the guitar including our friend Rawlfy, and another who played the bongo drums and chimes. Our table was handed the mocarainas. We danced in what little space was available, it was a blast. It reminded me a lot of the Mercury café back home in Denver a bar and restaurant where friends I go to dance swing on Sunday nights. As we say here it had a muy Buena onda (translation a good essence). Not sure how to get back to the towns bus terminal we hitched a ride with a family that also attended the event. Seven packed in the little truck we took the back streets to avoid the police another Argentine adventure.

Family Number 3

I now reside with the Deptris family, in the quaint barrio of Lomas de San Martin on the north side of town. I have three siblings. Vale the youngest is 20; studies film and photography at the university. Her distinct haircut with a dreadlock in the back reflects her unique eccentric style. Here cleft note tattoo on her neck give away her passion for music; she sings and plays the guitar beautifully. She is currently teaching me the acoustic guitar. Marco is the only boy and 22, he is a little shy but I know that he likes to swim and that he loves pasta. He works with my father and mother who are architects and have their own business during the week and I don’t see a whole lot of him. He has started taking business classes at the university and would really like to do more management type of work. Lau has followed in her father’s footsteps and is now studying architecture as well; she also enjoys drawing and various crafts. She is currently making lamp shades out of yarn. My father is a dedicated Rotary member and just finished his term as president. He is also an artist and his work is hung throughout the house. My mother is a retired history teacher and now helps my father with his own business. Last but now least is Bernie our dog; a little mutt medium size who resides in the backyard. Oh wait I almost forgot the fish tank in the kitchen my dad’s personal hobby. I have never felt so at home with any of my families sadly I will only be here for a month. It’s a temporary situation until my third family gets home from vacations. So I’m working hard to enjoy the little time that I have.